


your quiet afternoon crush

by lookoutlovers



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Library AU, M/M, and a meagre attempt at some sexy stuff from me, ish, outrageous levels of pining from eliott here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24841405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookoutlovers/pseuds/lookoutlovers
Summary: and, there he is, this boy. or, more fittingly, eliott decides, as an elongated slant of dusty sunlight spills in from the window and falls over his face, an angel.(or, eliott discovers the love of his life in the university library.)
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 39
Kudos: 328





	your quiet afternoon crush

**Author's Note:**

> 'your violent overnight rush' - supercut, lorde :)

The first time Eliott sees him, he’s in the library trying to finish the art history assignment that he foolishly left until the last minute, again.

Admittedly, the library isn’t where Eliott usually comes to get work done, he prefers to spread out on his bed, or the living room floor when Idriss isn’t yelling at the tv. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and so, here he is, just hours before his deadline, panicking.

He flips through his binder hastily, trying to locate that one page of notes on colour field painting that he knows he has somewhere, while also attempting to log into the university’s online library with the password he can’t seem to remember all at once. When he manages to lock himself out after too many attempts, Eliott drops his forehead onto the desk, letting out a quiet groan. 

A shushing noise from the table over prompts Eliott to look up, because he wasn't even being _loud._ The girl there sends Eliott a half annoyed look before returning to her work. Eliott rolls his eyes, and then, in a moment of embarrassment, glances around the library to make sure no one caught the ill-mannered gesture.

And, there he is, this boy. Or, more fittingly, Eliott decides, as an elongated slant of dusty sunlight spills in from the window and falls over his face, an angel.

He’s frowning down at his textbook, laptop open in front of him, the pencil between his lips chewed down to its lead. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions like he’s been running his hand through it too much. His eyes are a deep blue, and even with the distance between them Eliott sees it, the way they cut through the golden light of the library like waves spilling onto a sea’s shore. His lips are a blushing shade of red, bitten from concentration and —

And he’s so goddamn pretty it _hurts._

It’s then that someone walks up to the boy, flicking him on the back of the neck and laughing as he startles, and — _that’s Imane,_ Eliott realises. She takes a seat next to him, the two whispering back and forth for a few moments. The boy rolls his eyes at something Imane says, but promptly follows it with a giggle. It’s pretty, his laugh, and it results in the same girl who had shushed Eliott before clearing her throat rather conspicuously, which only causes the boy to bite down onto his bottom lip and hide a grin towards the table, and Eliott has to look away, he has to. It’s too much.

Something rattles in his chest, a tug of sorts, deep in between the gaps of his ribcage. It’s as if, his heart, all defiant and wilful, unsettles. And Eliott is not accustomed to that, really, he’s been so caught up in the turbulence of the new semester, of trying to keep on top of deadlines, as well as his shifts at the video store, _and_ his weekly therapy sessions, that he hasn’t had much time to think about dating or crushes at all.

But now here is this boy, angel, paragon — _whatever,_ light caught in the ends of his hair, turning the dark tips golden, and he’s cute, like, really fucking cute. And, god, _Imane._ Imane knows the angel, and Eliott knows Imane, sort of. This is good, Eliott thinks, really good. He can work with that.

He spends the next forty five minutes flicking glances across the expanse of the library and decidedly not doing his essay, finding it too difficult to concentrate when the guy stands to stretch out his legs and the bottom of his shirt rides up his stomach slightly.

He looks Eliott’s way, vaguely. Eliott snaps his gaze down, willing his rapid heartbeat to appease. If the boy notices Eliott’s staring, he doesn’t attest it, and Eliott wouldn’t know, anyways, he leaves soon after, his bereft essay in one hand, his heart in the other, flailing.

*

“So, I saw Imane today,” Eliott says later that evening in the living room with Idriss. They’re watching some strange action movie Idriss had insisted on, but Eliott hasn’t really been paying much attention. “At the library.”

“Okay...” Idriss looks over at Eliott warily.

“Uh — yeah.” Eliott huffs out a frustrated breath, trying to decide how to go about this without coming across as incredibly creepy. But in the end he decides that he’s way beyond worrying about something like that around Idriss, anyway. “There was this boy with her.”

Idriss smirks. “Oh?”

Eliott shifts nervously. “Yeah, um. I thought maybe you’d know his name, or something.”

Idirss only grins at Eliott, this knowing look on his face that insinuates all of the unspoken delight he is holding in.

In the low light of the living room, Eliott can only hope that the flush that works its way up his neck and over his face doesn’t show. Something on the tv explodes, it spills a harsh flash of white and then a quick burst of fiery orange over them, and realistically, Eliott knows it’s impossible, but it feels as though the fire catches onto his skin, burns him from the inside out. And he also knows that Idriss, despite the cunning look, is only fooling around. Yet, still. Eliott huffs, looking at his hands.

“Shit, man,” Idriss breathes out, “look at you, blushing and shit. He must’ve been really fucking cute.”

_“Idriss,”_ Eliott whines, sending him what he hopes is a pleading look and not a pained one.

“Alright,” Idriss surrenders. He looks a bit like he wants to tease Eliott further, but he seems to stifle the desire. “I’m kidding. Sorry, I’m kidding.” He pauses the movie. “Describe him to me then, I’ll see if I can help.”

The smile that adorns Eliott’s face at Idriss’ words can’t be helped, not really, especially not when he dives into a description into Imane’s friend that is, perhaps, a tad too fond and a lot too in depth for the brief afternoon spent on two opposite ends of the library from each other. But Eliott doesn’t really care, even if Idriss grins and teases him for it relentlessly afterwards, he doesn’t.

“You’re so whipped already,” Idriss says, “Jesus. What has this guy done to you?”

“I don’t know he was—“ _He was beautiful, like a sunrise, but more. He had this pretty glow about him that made him look almost unreal. It makes me want to know everything about him._ Eliott sighs. “I just want to know his name.”

Nodding, Idriss lets out a soft breath. “Okay, well. That sounds a lot like Lucas, I think. You know — small, annoyingly loud laugh, wild hair. He’s in Imane’s class, so it is likely they’d be studying together.” He turns back to the tv then, pressing play. But not without one last smirk Eliott’s way, a teasing, “He’s also, very, _certainly_ gay,” to which Eliott huffs and shoves him with a pillow.

Laughter subsides, and the aftershocks of the explosion settle on the tv like a ghost, a dull ringing sound that fills up the living room. Eliott isn’t listening.

“Lucas,” he whispers without necessarily meaning to. Perhaps to test it out, how the name falls from his lips, how it curves and fits along with his accent, the vowels sharp, consonants soft.

He decides he quite likes it, in the end, he likes it a lot.

*

Library visits begin to take up a frequent portion of Eliott’s weeks.

He continues to go back even after handing in his last assignment for the month, but he figures he might as well get a head start on the outline he has to write for his portfolio instead, and even when he finishes that, three weeks early, he continues to go back.

Lucas gets this adorable crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating really hard, Eliott has noticed, and it’s completely a coincidence as much as it is a convenience that he always seems to sit in that same seat next to the window.

And there’s so much Eliott wants to do. He wants to go over there when Lucas is alone and ask to sit next to him, he wants to follow him when he gets up to find a certain textbook and bump into him incidentally between the aisles. He wants to know this boy — wants to know _everything._ But something seems hold him back every single time, a wall he can’t break down, rooted deep in his head and in his chest like a weed, ugly and hard to dig out. 

Maybe it has something to do with the heavy weight that hangs off him from previous relationships, maybe, that feeling of being too much, and then not enough all at once. The tone in Lucille’s voice when he’d organise a date and she’d say something like, _it’s a bit much, don’t you think?_

It’s an insecurity Eliott had thought he was long over — until now.

And he thinks about the possibility of going over to Lucas, how all semblance of words and verbs and nouns would leave him embarrassingly, how flustered he would get under the pretty pull of those blue eyes up close. He thinks about how Lucas would perhaps indulge him, briefly, just because he’s probably kind like that, while inside he’s laughing, thinking, _this loser can’t even form words._

So Eliott doesn’t do any of these things, instead only watches from afar, longingly, pathetically.

Weeks pass, and Idriss and Sofiane find it incredibly amusing that Eliott continues to make zero advancements. But the thing is he just can’t, he can’t. And it has everything to do with that theoretical wall in his head, he knows it does, and yet, he still can’t force himself to break down the barrier.

Eliott wants to, though, more than anything, he wants to know Lucas, and he wants to be the reason behind that smile he’s become so acquainted with now. But he’s terrified. So he takes these moments, quiet ones, tucked away in the far corner of the university library between slants of sunlight and the smell of old pages, and he holds them as close to his chest as his heart will let him.

Because for now, that’s all he really has.

*

It’s four thirty-six p.m. when Eliott begins to clear his things from the library table with a sigh. Today Lucas hadn’t shown, which, is fine. Or it should be fine. Thing is Lucas _always_ spends Wednesday afternoons in the library and Eliott had half expected him to show at some point at least. But he’s meeting his parents for dinner at five and so he really can’t afford to wait any longer.

When he stands he pulls out his phone, typing out a text to his mother to let her know he might be a few minutes late to the restaurant, and is rounding the corner that leads to the main foyer, still not particularly looking where he’s going, when something, or _someone,_ crashes into his chest, hard.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry,” the person is saying, fumbling with the books in his arms as they begin to slip.

It’s Lucas, Eliott realises abruptly, and his lungs completely fail him.

“No it’s — it was my fault. I wasn’t looking,” Eliott tells him, surprised his voice is even working at all.

He ducks his head a little, half to see if Lucas is okay, mostly so that he can meet his eyes. Although, Lucas doesn’t look up. Instead he mumbles a quick, “It’s fine. Sorry, I’m — I’m late.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand, and then he’s gone, without as much as a glance.

Eliott watches him go, helplessly, his heart sinking so low in his chest he almost sinks with it.

*

Eliott dreams in blue.

There’s an obscurity to dreams that has always unsettled him to an extent. The thought that an entire world can unfurl inside of you while you sleep at night, one that you can’t control. 

But there’s also a comfort in that, too, he thinks — the idea of a brief escape.

And while these dreams are often hazy, actions and words pieced together almost clumsily, it’s the blue that’s most vivid. A blue that gets everywhere, unprompted, wreckening almost. It’s a blue that tends to stain, a blue that’s ultimately pretty beyond words.

Eliott daydreams in violent colours, because those he can control, mostly, sometimes. 

Well, Eliott _used_ to be able to control his daydreams, but recently his mind has been behaving in ways defiant, thinking of smiles that are sweet and eyes that are blue, a voice that’s maybe soft, maybe a little bit rough. Although Eliott wouldn’t really know that, not yet.

But, somehow, between faint shades of purple and obscure hues of green, that blue still manages to slip through, paramount amongst the rest of the spectrum.

And like his dreams at night, soon enough Eliott can’t control it.

(He doesn’t really want to anymore.)

Blue is loud and obtrusive, and it creates a kaleidoscope behind his eyelids of all the different ways light catches onto Lucas’ eyes and makes them glimmer. From aegean to sapphire, then cobalt to cerulean, they shift almost stealthily. Eliott wouldn’t even know this if it weren’t for art, the subtlety of blue, how it consumes in its very own quietly violent way.

The thing is — see, the pretence of blue and the flimsy meanings it held used to feel heavy, to Eliott, far too heavy, like the sky was closing in on him, or waves were swallowing him whole. But now, Eliott thinks, it’s not as turbulent as that, it never was, it’s softer, actually, gentle. 

Now — blue feels like a dream.

Blue, it’s still the colour of the sky and the sea, but it is also the exquisite shade of Lucas Lallemant’s eyes. And that’s really something.

*

The flowers that bloom at the cusp of summer adorn Paris in a flush of colour. Gone are the sunken corners of winter, the grey that swallows the city in a strange sort of gloom, and in its place a sweetness unfurls.

Eliott finds himself one Tuesday afternoon amidst this sweetness, something rooted deep inside his chest that he can’t quite describe. The feeling is light, warm, like the balmy heat of the sun, a little unruly like the wildflowers that grow from the cracks in the pavement. Eliott reckons, vaguely, that perhaps it has something to do with this:

Lucas — Lallemant, twenty, biology student, ray of sunshine, Eliott has learnt — sits in the grass on campus, flowers growing all around him, sunlight caught in the ends of his hair and the high point of his cheekbones, and he looks like a dream. From the way he laughs, sound lost to the distance and the slight breeze, the soft gold that licks his skin, the azure blue of his eyes, it’s like the hazy mirage of water in a desert, just too good to be true.

But it isn’t, Eliott knows, Lucas is just beautiful like that.

He’s with friends, like he mostly is when Eliott sees him, laughing, bright, _glowing._ And Eliott feels the air get knocked out of him when Lucas smiles in a way that takes over his entire face, his eyes softening, cheeks colouring.

He thinks, with his body frozen in the doorway of the art building, his grip on the door handle tightening, that he might fall, and if he did, he would fall hard.

*

The library is stained in an odd hue of blue today, a blue that’s cool and hazy. 

Lucas Lallemant sits quietly by his window seat and his eyes are blue like the late afternoon is, cerulean in a sea of faded ultramarine. The colour seems to stain in ways more than just light, though, it stains like the charcoal on Eliott’s paper, a rough sketch beneath his nineteenth century art symbolism notes that stares back at him a little funnily. It stains like a vivid dream does, that pretty blue of Lucas’ eyes, coruscating even with the weak presence of sunlight.

Today, Eliott sits one table closer than usual. His chin rests on his palm, and his eyes flick distractedly between the sketch and Lucas. But he finds that he doesn’t even need to study him very hard, since a lot of the details are perhaps already indelible in too many ways by now, anyway.

“Who’s that supposed to be?”

At the sudden voice, Eliott startles, it’s jarring in the reticence of the library. He scrambles to cover the drawing with his hand, a bit pathetically, because the voice — person, _Sofiane —_ has already seen.

Eliott sighs, shutting his notebook altogether and watching as Sofiane takes a seat opposite him, his smirk light.

“Don’t,” Eliott says, shutting his eyes, and, when Sofiane only laughs softly, again, _“Don’t.”_

“Alright, _alright,_ sorry. I saw nothing.”

When Eliott reopens his eyes Sofiane is smiling at him from across the table, his backpack hugged tightly to his chest, and there’s this look in his eyes that implies absolute _havoc._

Eliott squints at him. “What, Sofiane.”

Sofiane shrugs, glancing away and back again. Eliott shifts nervously in his seat. “There’s a party tonight,” Sofiane eventually says, his fingers tapping lightly on the wood of the table. “One of Imane’s friends is having it, she told me I could invite whoever I wanted.”

“Okay,” Eliott draws out, stifling his smile into his palm when Sofiane says _Imane_ and the word seems to soften unlike any of the other apparently negligible ones. “And?”

“And,” Sofiane repeats, firm, “We’re going, because you know who’s going to be there—”

Eliott’s stomach drops. _“Don’t,_ ” he warns.

“—Lucas is going to be there.”

_“Sofiane,”_ Eliott whines quietly.

“Oh come on, Eliott.” Sofiane sends him a soft glare from across the table. “This could be your chance to actually talk to Lucas instead of hopelessly staring at him from across the room!”

Eliott’s eyes snap over to Lucas alarmingly when the tone Sofiane’s voice raises slightly above a whisper. He’s thankfully still typing away on his laptop, completely oblivious. Eliott doesn’t let his eyes linger too long.

“Jesus,” he says anyway, when he looks back at Sofiane, “would you keep your voice down?”

Sofiane sighs. “Sorry, just. I’m tired of watching you pine over him from afar like a damn puppy.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Eliott,” he declares, standing and shoving his backpack over his shoulders. “We’re going,” it’s so firm, “and that’s that.”

Shaking his head, Eliott sighs, says, “I’m not going,” and he means it, he really does.

*

Eliott is not happy about this, not in the slightest. Some obnoxious throwback playlist is blaring throughout the apartment, and it’s dark, too dark. The little bursts of coloured lights that spill from the rotating disco ball in the corner are the only source of light, and his beer sort of tastes funny, too, but maybe he’s just sulking.

He wants to leave, but Sofiane keeps saying things like, _just give it a chance,_ and, _one more hour,_ though it’s nearing midnight, and Eliott is yet to see Lucas at all.

He’s sitting at the end of the sofa next to Idriss, distractedly following a slant of purple light as it curves over the ceiling with his eyes, when he decides that enough is enough. He stands, mumbling that he’s going for a smoke, alone, and then doesn’t wait to see if he gets followed.

He doesn’t, thankfully — or, well, not by Idriss, anyway.

Eliott is halfway through his cigarette when the door to the small balcony slides open, and a giddy bundle of boy spills out into the nighttime air next to him. Eliott’s grip on the balcony railing tightens. _Of fucking course._

“Oh,” Lucas says, a bit startled, as if he hadn’t expected there to be anyone else out here. “Hi.”

Eliott, amidst the minor heart attack that takes over as soon as his eyes land on Lucas, tries to muster up a smile that doesn’t appear completely panicked.

“Hey,” he responds, looking away from Lucas and back out over the street below, taking a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

Silently, Lucas shuts the balcony door, then takes a step closer until he’s leaning up against the railing next to Eliott, close enough that Eliott can perhaps feel the vague heat of him, but not close enough that their elbows quite touch.

“You’re Eliott,” Lucas says after a short silence, moments pieced together of Eliott, inside, scrambling for something which is only at least half pathetic to say.

The observation takes him aback, a little, _a lot_ — he hadn’t known that Lucas was even aware of him at all. He shudders around the devastating inflection that is his name and it’s elocution when spoken in the pretty lilt of Lucas’ voice, careful, almost, as if it means something to him.

“That's me,” Eliott says, a bit lamely, turning to look at Lucas.

When he does, Lucas is already staring right back. 

“I’m Lucas.”

“I know.” The words leave Eliott quite defiantly, unprompted, unexpected. But they’re out there, now, so he lets them be. _God,_ he thinks to himself, _you’re being so obvious._

He offers up the cigarette, a lack of anything less embarrassing to do, which Lucas eyes for a brief moment before shaking his head. Then a lot more seriously, he says, “I've seen you in the library.”

“Oh,” Eliott breathes, “you have?” He thinks that maybe Lucas had meant to say, _I’ve seen you in the library, staring, I’ve seen you staring at me,_ with the way he opens his mouth to say something else but promptly shuts it again. It’s not like Eliott has been particularly careful about hiding the fact, because the truth is he hasn’t, not really, and especially not recently. He flicks the end of his cigarette, watching as the ashes fall from it, disappearing into thin air over the edge of the balcony.

Lucas hums, nodding. There’s a small smile adorning his lips, one that is, perhaps, a bit nervous. The light of the streetlamps below climb up the side of the building and fall over his face, faintly, prettily, and in the scant light of the night, Eliott can just about make out the pink of his cheeks. At least he thinks it’s that, or perhaps it’s not that at all, but merely a trick of light. Either way, Eliott thinks he’s so goddamn beautiful it wouldn’t even make a difference.

“I've seen you too,” Eliott admits, “in the library.” _I see you everywhere, actually, you’re all I ever see._

Lucas blinks at him, bottom lip caught beneath his teeth. It unleashes something warm into Eliott’s chest, a muted buzz cut loose along with the flailing of his heart. It feels as though there is a flicker in the air, a spark that makes Eliott think, hope, _is this a moment, is that what’s happening right now?_ It's a feeble thing to think, honestly, when Lucas still barely knows him at all. But that can’t be helped, not really.

“Do you—” Lucas starts to say.

_“Lucas!”_

The door to the balcony swings open, music spilling out. Eliott doesn’t look to see who it is, he takes a step back, and the moment, whatever he thought it was, slips away, gone like the flimsy embers of his cigarette.

“They’re playing your song,” the person says, _“come on.”_

Eliott feels his stomach sink. And it’s stupid really, but it’s just that he hadn’t expected their conversation to end so soon. There is still so much Eliott wants to say, to _ask._ He, selfishly, now that he has him here, just wants to keep Lucas all to himself.

But then there’s a hand curling around Eliott’s elbow, gently, and Eliott looks over to find Lucas smiling at him expectantly, a hint of that same nervousness from before still present.

“You coming?” he asks, softly, moonlight caught in the ends of his eyelashes.

Eliott’s heart flutters, it’s such an effortlessly kind gesture, yet there seems to be a deeper meaning tangled within those two words that Eliott finds himself desperately wanting to unravel.

So, he stomps out his cigarette, and he goes.

  
  


Lucas is a terrible dancer, honestly, like, a complete disaster. But it’s okay, because Eliott’s moves are equally as embarrassing, and so it works.

He drags Eliott in through the balcony door and towards the dance floor. Then, once settled amidst the crowd, he grins, wide and pretty in a way that makes Eliott feel entirely breathless, and he begins to dance.

It’s not as much dancing as it is jumping about and flailing his hands around with little care or coordination, but it’s ethereal nonetheless, the way he does it. Eliott has never witnessed anything more beautiful — the excited glint in his eyes, the pretty pink of his cheeks, and his smile, like the sun, _scintillating._ And it’s such a consuming thing, Eliott gets caught up in it like a drug, finds that he can’t quite contain his own movements, all clumsy and careless to the beat of some English pop song that he doesn’t particularly understand.

The lights flicker, too many colours stretching out the dark of the room, fireworks against a midnight sky. And they fall onto Lucas’ face, get all tangled in the curves of his hair, the slants of his cheekbones. Eliott feels it like a flame when Lucas’ hand finds his amidst the crowd and squeezes, pulling him closer.

Eliott watches Lucas under the quivering lights, laughing and dancing and holding Eliott’s hand like it’s obligatory and he can’t help but think, _how are you even real?_

The weight against his palm is a solid thing, a warm almost clammy presence that makes Eliott feel dizzy. He hasn’t even drank that much, but he feels completely intoxicated by the way Lucas moves, he feels _enamoured_ by it, by him.

They flit between the living room and the kitchen like ghosts, as though it’s only them who exist, like nobody else can see them. Slipping in between gaps of people and giggling into plastic cups, they move like the night is thin, sheer against moonlight, like if they don’t hold onto it tight enough it might disappear.

He pointedly ignores the smirk Idriss sends him from across the room at one point, the thumbs up from Sofiane, the three guys Eliott doesn’t quite recognise pointing at them from behind Lucas’ back and cheering. It’s all sort of just white noise, really, when Lucas is all Eliott can focus on.

Later, when the music has shifted onto something else, something lazier, they end up back out on that same balcony from before. And while the dancing had been good, Eliott is glad of the space and the silence, because he wants this, he does, he wants it so badly, to know Lucas, to talk to him, to learn of him.

“I must say,” Lucas is saying, panting, back pressed up against the railing, “you have some _impeccable_ dance moves.”

Eliott stands opposite him, unable to contain the way his lips stretch out. Lucas is too alluring in this hazy sort of midnight light, the heat of summer kissing him in all the right places. It’s dizzying. “You know I can’t help but notice the sarcasm in your voice,” he points out.

Lucas scrunches his face up. “I’m being serious, actually. But if you don’t want my compliments, that’s fine.” He folds his arms over his chest, his eyes hardening, but the gesture is completely contradicted by the curve of his smile.

Eliott’s heart swells.

“No,” he frowns, taking a step closer, one that feels a lot like ten, inched with nerves. “I do want your compliments.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eliott says, and mostly as a joke, partly because he’s enjoying the way Lucas is looking at him, “give me more.”

For a moment Lucas just watches him, lips pressed together. The music coming from inside the apartment is a dull thudding thing but it does nothing to conceal the way Eliott’s heartbeat travels all the way to his ears.

“Okay,” Lucas says after a few moments, as though deeply contemplating it. “Inside, before, when we were dancing. You laughed — well, you kept laughing.” The stuttered cadence of his voice is endearing, centimetres slip from between them, Eliott doesn’t mean to hold his breath but he does. “Your laugh,” Lucas repeats in a whisper, “you're beautiful when you laugh.”

Eliott stares at him, the feeling of all the air being sucked out of his lungs too severe by now. He huffs, lightly, looking away and moving to stand next to Lucas by the railing instead. _God,_ he thinks, _I’m so fucked_. Lucas’ words stain, said with nonchalance, yet with an intent behind them that’s extreme. Eliott fails at a response, instead opting to look out over the city while trying not to let his heartbeat grow any louder.

But Lucas’ voice comes again, too soon. “Well,” he says, “aren’t you going to give me one back?”

Eliott blinks.

“A compliment,” is said, a prompt of sorts, it pulls Eliott out of his daze.

“Oh,” he breathes out, “yeah, yes.”

Lucas turns, fully facing him, waiting. Eliott mimics the movement, exhaling steadily.

“Your eyes,” he says, almost reaching out, but stopping himself, “they’re — I’ve never seen eyes as beautiful as yours.”

When Lucas smiles it’s breathtaking. The shadows over his face pale blue against the shivery moonlight, and Eliott feels a lot like he might die.

“Thank you,” his words are faint, said as though breathless. He might be, Eliott thinks, there’s a certain sensation that comes with that word, _beautiful,_ as it’s spoken as tenderly as they just have.

Eyes flicker, down and up, blue to grey, over lips and skin. Eliott’s breath shudders.

“—actually, everything about you is,” he rushes out, an urge he can’t control, “beautiful, I mean. You’re so beautiful.”

It shouldn’t come as natural as it does, the way Lucas blushes and moves closer, the way he looks up at Eliott almost as though he wants to be kissed. They’ve only really just met — but then again, Eliott feels like he’s known Lucas his whole life.

“Really?” Lucas asks.

“Yes, really.”

Something fusses on the street below, teenagers stumbling home from a drunken night out, perhaps. Neither of them care enough to check. Eliott’s heartbeat has adopted an unrelenting rhythm, one that presses against his ribcage, pushing him closer to Lucas, impossibly closer, too close, _not close enough._

He doesn’t stop himself this time as he reaches out. His hand slots against the slant of Lucas’ jaw, thumb trailing along his cheek where the skin feels softest. Lucas leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut as a breath slips out. And he’s so pretty, unbearably pretty. He’s pretty like a thunderstorm is, violent and bright and here to ruin Eliott completely — and Eliott feels like he can’t _breathe._

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, unable to resist it any longer, his heart in his throat. It doesn’t feel too soon in the way that it most likely should. Lucas has this aura about him, _entrancing,_ difficult to ignore, and Eliott has had a crush on him for weeks now, it’s been building up inside of him like a live wire.

Lucas’ eyes snap open, prussian blue like the colour desire probably is, and his breath shifts. His hands squeeze Eliott’s waist, a pressure that almost causes him to squirm. Then he’s nodding, and he’s saying, “Yes, please,” softly, politely, like Eliott might steal the words back.

He doesn’t, though, and he won’t. 

The first brush of lips is gentle, tentative, soft, too soft for the feral way Eliott’s chest is flailing. But then Lucas is parting his lips, and the flailing settles, and the feeling weakens like a dying flame, as if smoke curling up, faded and slow. It transforms into something else, something warmer, calmer.

They kiss, and it unfurls a little like the blooming of a flower under the sun.

Eliott shuts his eyes and he kisses Lucas deeply, hands cupping his cheeks. Lucas presses himself closer, mouth opening to Eliott’s tongue, hands crawling up to tug at Eliott’s hair, pulling sounds from the both of them. He tastes sweet and warm, like sugar and sunlight.

They kiss, until they can’t breathe, and even then the thought of pulling away is too unappealing to do so. So they kiss some more, and Lucas’ lips slot against Eliott’s in the perfect rhythm, his cheeks warm under Eliott’s palms.

They kiss, and Eliott feels as though he’s waited for this moment his entire life.

Eliott presses their foreheads together when they separate, panting.

Lucas huffs. “Is it weird that I sort of want to know everything about you?”

“No it’s —“ The words are surprising, in a way, but then again, so is Lucas, so it sort of makes sense. Eliott tucks a peice of hair behind Lucas’ ear. “I feel the same.”

At this Lucas smiles, soft and sweet and pretty — _achingly pretty._

Eliott kisses him again. Above, stars stir, shift, _rattle._ Eliott’s heart has never felt quite this light.

  
  


They’re moving back through the apartment, the substance of time has gone watery, Eliott’s lips are tingling. He grins when he sees Sofiane and Imane huddled together in the far corner, joined hands swinging loosely between them as they talk close.

_Come back to mine,_ had been said in a rush, breathed out. It was, perhaps, a thought, or maybe a statement, a question or a plea. Either way, there was a nod, and a hitch of breath, a clumsy scramble for jackets and keys; no desire for goodbyes.

  
  


The walk to Eliott’s place is quick and too long all at once. Lucas complains that it’s cold but Eliott feels like he’s on fire, the lingering of Lucas’ lips pressed against his burning him alive. He gives Lucas his jacket, then kisses him up against the streetlamp they’ve stopped at until Lucas goes pliant in his arms, and Eliott continues to drag him along the streets out of fear that he might just disappear into the air like a fevered dream.

Inside, the hallway light washes over Lucas’ face in a warm gold, a subtle contrast to the way the lights of the party had consumed him, how he had looked under the soft pull of moonlight. 

Here, Lucas blinks up at Eliott, his breathing loud in the silence of the apartment, and it’s too loud, too perfect next to the sound of Eliott’s, and he’s so beautiful Eliott can hardly _think._

“Do you have any idea,” Eliott huffs, taking a step forwards, “what you do to me?” 

Lucas’ back hits the wall, his breath slipping further into the hallway, against Eliott skin, his lips. His lips, which touch Lucas’, barely, just enough to feel their press, to pull out a quiet gasp.

_“You,”_ is all Lucas says, hands fisting into the sides of Eliott’s t-shirt. “You’re—“

“What?” Eliott prompts when Lucas doesn’t finish, ghosting a finger along his jaw. “I’m what, baby?”

Lucas kisses him. It’s a bit rushed, starts with their noses bumping together and Eliott letting out a low groan that Lucas instantly opens his mouth to. There are hands everywhere. Eliott is acutely aware of it, the tight grip on his hips, palms soothing along his waist, over his chest, his back, tugging him closer, down, and closer. Eliott kisses Lucas deep and then slowly, his breath hitching when Lucas’ hands finally settle in his hair, grasping.

When Eliott eventually pulls away, catching Lucas’ bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle tug, Lucas lets out a rough breath, his head falling back against the wall. “Shit,” he says, breathless. “You’re fucking unreal, is what you are.”

Eliott can’t help the soft laugh that leaves him when he thinks of all the times he’s had that exact same thought about Lucas, all of those afternoons spent in the library, how surreal that seems now he’s here, looking at Eliott like he’s about to _devour_ him. Jesus. He runs a hand over Lucas’ cheek, gently, then pushes away the few pieces of hair that have fallen over his forehead.

He wants to say, _you’re everything,_ and, _I’ve dreamed about this,_ and then, _I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you._ But it’s too much, Eliott knows that, knows that he’s always cared for things and for people too deeply, too intensely. Lucille had told him that, just once, in the heat of an argument, but it still stuck, and he knows he shouldn’t look at Lucas and want the world from him when they’ve only really spoken once, but that can’t really be helped. It can’t. He doesn’t want to scare Lucas away, not now, not ever, so he swallows the words, and instead presses a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, and lastly his lips, just a quick one.

“I’d like to take you to bed,” he whispers against Lucas’ lips, “if you want — if that’s okay.”

Lucas’ hand releases its grip in Eliott’s hair, falling onto his shoulder, just resting there. His eyes are dark, and blue, so unbelievably blue it makes Eliott feel like he’s drowning, dying, _falling._

“Please.” Lucas’ voice is strained, soft. “I’d like that a lot, please.”

  
  


Eliott’s bedroom is contoured in sharp shadows, one a.m. unfolding in an explosion of soft grey tones. Lucas appears misplaced, here, swallowed in Eliott’s bed sheets, a bit like someone has plucked him from Eliott’s dreams and stuck him there. His hair splays over the pillows in a pretty halo, and Eliott watches as his eyes flit through those many shades of blue, trying to commit it to memory.

Lucas is kissing him hungrily, hands in his hair, back pressed into the mattress. His smell is everywhere, stubborn in a way Eliott already knows will be a nightmare to wash out once he leaves, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and then Eliott is sitting up, pulling Lucas along with him and then slowly removing his shirt. There is still that golden glow about him, it’s as if he’s been kissed by the sun itself and it shows, and his skin is warm, so warm, like honey beneath his fingertips.

Eliott can’t help but stop and stare. Lucas blushes, looking down at the hands in his lap.

“What?” he asks, abashed.

Cupping his cheek, Eliott lifts his head back up. His eyes are ruinous, when he does, wide and glossy and blue, pacific blue, midnight blue; a blue Eliott is already far too weak for. A blue he could probably fall for if he let himself.

“Nothing, just,” he rests their foreheads together, exhaling lightly, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Lucas scoffs. “What? To get laid.”

“No.” Eliott leans back, his thumb trails along Lucas’ cheekbone, the dip under his bottom lip, and when he speaks again it’s with a softer lilt. _“No —_ I mean you. I only want you.”

Something flashes over Lucas’ face, slowly and then all at once. And Eliott fears that perhaps the admission was too much, but it seems as though Lucas understands despite this, with the way his breath hitches and he pulls Eliott back down into a deep kiss.

And it’s strange, because Eliott is so used to existing as this watered down version of himself, holding back in relationships in case he scares the other person off with how intensely he falls into things. But for some obscure reason, already, with Lucas, he gets the impression that he doesn’t have to do that. 

Lucas feels exactly like the type of person Eliott can safely be himself around.

Their lips slot together, and Eliott thinks of _you’re Eliott,_ and Lucas’ mouth opens to the swipe of Eliott’s tongue, and he thinks about _I’ve seen you in the library,_ and then Eliott presses Lucas back down onto the mattress, stomach down as he kisses over the this new exposure of warm skin, and he thinks that, perhaps — or, it’s maybe more of a transient flicker of wishful thinking — he hasn’t been the only one daydreaming in that library all these weeks.

Lucas’ back arches under the wander of Eliott’s lips, elegant like how the moon forms in soft crescent shapes, and a breath spills out, pressed into pillows. Eliott’s hands seem to fit perfectly into every curve of Lucas’ body, as though a sculptor has carved them both from stone to fit the way they do, destined to find one another.

The inclining murmur of Eliott’s heart can be heard in the still of the bedroom, Lucas’ too, perhaps. But Eliott feels it, more, when he turns Lucas over onto his back and trails his lips along the warm expanse of his chest, unable to tell whether the flush of red there is a product of the sun that has been looming over Paris recently or if it's something else entirely. He smells like sunscreen and boy, like summer is unfurling from within him.

Like this Lucas blinks up at Eliott, eclipsed in airy shadows, washed out by the faint orange glow of the bedside lamp, and he’s enthralling, hypnotising like a sin or a spell, one Eliott is ill-fated to fall for.

Eliott feels it in the centre of his chest — _the desire._ It’s in the way he breathes, quick and shallow, then it’s in the breathy way that Lucas says his name, a desperate aspiration.

“Eliott, please.”

“What, Lucas. Tell me what you want.”

The moonlight doesn’t quite reach them here, but it doesn’t really need to. Eliott looms over Lucas instead, kissing his cheek, holding him tenderly.

“I want you to fuck me,” Lucas says, voice stretched out thin. The utterance is almost too sinful for how gentle everything else around them feels.

Eliott’s lungs cave in. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah — fuck, please.”

“You keep saying that,” Eliott points out, _“please.”_

Lucas only wraps his legs around Eliott’s waist, grinding upwards. “Yeah, well, my mother taught me manners,” he retorts, then, smirking lightly, he says, “now hurry up and touch me before I come in my pants, seriously.”

Eliott huffs out a laugh, hand soothing over Lucas’ thigh. “Did she ever teach you patience?”

To Lucas' weak detest, Eliott takes his time. He kisses Lucas slowly, licking into his mouth, and he undresses them both down to their boxers even slower, planting kisses to every new expanse of exposed skin he can find. Lucas squirms through it, hands grasping desperately at whatever he can reach.

Eliott kisses down Lucas’ chest until he reaches the edge of his boxers, he glances up at Lucas, lips grazing the material gently. Lucas nods.

It’s the last moment of quiet before everything erupts into scorching flames.

The weight of Lucas in his mouth sends shivers down Eliott’s spine, he feels the fire consume him, mostly when he has Lucas squirming around his fingers, panting to the tug of his lips. And it only intensifies when he sinks into him, until there is no part of them that isn’t connected. It feels so good, too good. Lucas prompts Eliott to move and he does, breaths pressed into the warm line of Lucas’ neck, kisses placed along his chest like ellipses.

They fit together like sculptures and Lucas is the moon, a soft curve of light over Eliott’s bed sheets.

  
  


After, when they fall together in an awkward tumble of weak limbs and hot skin, Lucas lets out a light giggle, his face tucked into Eliott’s chest.

“Wow that was,” he’s panting, still, Eliott too. The hair at the nape of his neck is damp when Eliott runs his hand through it. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Eliott agrees, unable to contain his smile.

After a few moments Lucas glances up, bottom lip worried between his teeth. “I don’t usually do this, you know, like, one night stands — or whatever,” he stutters. “So, if you want me to leave. I can — I can go.”

“What — no.” Eliott sits up onto his elbow rather abruptly, looming over Lucas. His hair is splayed softly over the pillow, a red flush spread across his chest, along his neck, his cheeks. Eliott’s heart swells. “I mean, stay, if you want. I’d really like you to stay.”

“Yeah?”

Eliott hums, lying back down. “And I don’t do that either, really, one night stands.”

“Is that what this is?”

Lucas looks at him, his eyes up close are unlike anything Eliott imagined them to be.

“Well I was really hoping not,” Eliott admits quietly, palm soothing over Lucas’ side until he turns to face him. “Because I kind of want this to happen again, or a lot. Plus, Idriss says I make the best scrambled eggs he’s ever tasted, so you can’t leave yet.”

“Oh is that so?”

Eliott nods, grinning. Lucas kisses him again.

“I guess I’ll stay, then.”

  
  


*

When morning comes it does so tenderly, and when Eliott said he doesn’t do one night stands he meant it entirely.

Lucas is still sleeping next to him, an arm slung over Eliott’s waist, his mouth drooling all over the pillow. The gentle thumping of hearts and the soft spilling of breaths are the only sounds enough to matter. Not the gushing of cars or blaring of sirens or huffing of wind, but this — _them._

He figures it’ll be a while before Lucas wakes, since they had somehow managed to stay up until four a.m., just talking and getting to know each other better.

Slowly, after too many minutes of staring and of his insides melting at the way Lucas mumbles in his sleep, Eliott untangles himself and heads for the kitchen. The hardwood floor unsettles under his bare feet, early morning sunlight spilling in through the windows.

He sets to work, pulling ingredients from the fridge and the cupboards and picking out the nicest tea they have for when the kettle finishes boiling. And the entire time he can’t stop thinking about how unreal this all is, how lucky he is to have Lucas sleeping just in the next room, in Eliott’s bed, his hair smelling of that familiar brand of lavender laundry detergent only Eliott uses. He’s dreamt about this for _weeks._ He can’t stop smiling.

By the time Lucas shuffles into the kitchen, in only a pair of boxers and one of Eliott’s hoodies, the entire apartment smells of bacon and syrup and maybe the gentle affection that pours out of Eliott’s chest at the thrilling sight of Lucas drowning in his clothes.

“I didn’t know where you’d snuck off too,” Lucas says, his voice scratchy with sleep, perhaps slightly disappointed.

Eliott smiles, turning back to the stove. “Well I promised you breakfast.”

“That you did.”

He hears Lucas moving, and then there’s a slight pressure by his waist, Lucas’ hands tentatively hovering there, hesitant. Eliott leans back to let him know that it’s okay, and then Lucas is sighing, his arms wrapping entirely around Eliott’s middle from behind and his face tucking into the space where his shoulder meets his neck.

“Hi,” Eliott giggles. Lucas’ chest is warm against his back. He hugs Eliott tighter, nose tucked into his t-shirt.

“You’re so warm,” he mumbles, and then, “What are you making?”

“Blueberry and bacon pancakes, with scrambled eggs,” Eliott tells him proudly.

At this, Lucas lets out a loud laugh, one that stirs the still of the apartment like a storm. Eliott twists in his arms, frowning.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing just. Imane warned me about your terrible cooking. I should have listened to her—” 

As soon as the words leave Lucas’ mouth his eyes grow wide, like he’s just realised what he’s said. Eliott gapes back at him, unable to process the insinuation of Lucas’ incidental confession. Because, Imane — _what._

“Shit,” Lucas breathes, deflating, then huffing out a quiet laugh. “Well. Guess it was obvious anyway.”

“What,” Eliott mutters lamely, words falling flat.

Lucas shifts nervously. Something like hope clutches at Eliott’s chest.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to make things weird. But this is just a lot for me, because, like, I’ve had a massive crush on you for so long. So it’s — yeah.”

“You have?” Eliott bites the inside of his cheek when Lucas blushes, a feeble attempt at detaining a smile.

“I know. It’s kind of embarrassing I don't even know why I’m telling you.”

Eliott stares at him, speechless, a bit thrilled. Lucas’ face reddens.

“You know,” Eliott murmurs, tilting Lucas’ chin up with his thumb, exhaling. “I’ve — um, I’ve had a crush on you for the longest time, too, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, do you think I actually enjoy studying in the library? I was only going to try and build up the courage to talk to you.”

“Oh. That’s.” A faint smile adorns Lucas’ face, prettily adbashed in the soft morning light. “Oh.”

Behind Eliott the pan splutters, but he ignores it in favour of tugging Lucas closer, their foreheads falling together with a slight thump. “I really like you, Lucas.”

He has half a nerve not to say it, because Eliott knows that he falls too hard and that he cares too deeply for things that maybe shouldn’t matter, he knows his faults. But when he utters the words Lucas doesn’t pull back at all like Eliott expects him to — like he’s so used to, instead he tugs Eliott closer, a glint forming in his eyes that causes something in Eliott’s heart to flood with warmth. And Lucas smiles, and Eliott thinks, maybe, those aren’t faults at all. Maybe the way he loves is a blessing, something that he should be nurturing instead of trying to push away.

And plus, Lucas seems to preen at the admission, his lips pursed into a pleased smile. “I really like you too,” he says, and the world doesn’t stop, not really, but within Eliott’s small apartment, it feels like it does.

Eliott presses their lips together, the first of that morning, the first of this kind, softer than the night before. Less desperate, more like a promise of what they hope this could be, something full and loving and warm.

“I’d love to take you out on a date, too,” Eliott murmurs after, hand still cupping Lucas’ left cheek. “So many dates. If you’re up for it.”

Leaning into the touch, Lucas smiles, and it’s the best feeling in the world, to know that he’s the reason behind a gesture so utterly beautiful.

“I’m up for it, of course I am,” Lucas says, softly, nudging their noses together.

Warmth spills over Eliott, like sunlight to a window, over wildflowers or curves of sea. “Good,” he whispers, lost in the gentle inflection of Lucas’ voice, the sheer affection tangled within it.

He’s powerless to do anything but press their lips together once more, drinking in that lovely sunlight until it turns his insides golden.

“I was worried it would freak you out, how much I like you already,” Lucas admits, and Eliott’s chest capsizes.

“Not at all,” he whispers against Lucas’ lips, his smile so wide it aches, “not a chance.”

  
  


“You know,” Eliott says, later, “I’m gonna need to have some words with Imane first, though.” Lucas is now sitting on the kitchen counter, watching Eliott shake chilli flakes into the pancake mixture. “There is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with my cooking.”

When Lucas laughs, that sensation — in Eliott’s chest and in his heart, tucked behind his ribcage, bright and thrilling and entirely fond — it is magnificent.

He grins. “You’re unbelievable.”

**Author's Note:**

> okay i really do suck at endings ah im sorry. thank u so much for reading! i hope u enjoyed <3
> 
> my tumblr is [@lumierelovers](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/) ! :)


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